Few empires in history rival the Romans in terms of the sheer breadth of territory they controlled. From England to Egypt, and from Spain to Syria, nearly a quarter of the world’s population lived under the Romans at the height of their power. Their technological and cultural achievements remain impressive to this day, whether we consider the roads and aqueducts that have survived all these centuries, the language that lies at the root of so many European tongues, or the poetry that continues to captivate readers around the world. Of course, the Romans also did many terrible things—they kept slaves, they fed people to lions, and let’s not forget the time they razed Carthage and sowed its fields with salt. But none of this diminished their belief in themselves as the pinnacle of earthly civilization.
Roman gastronomy featured a similar duality. It included magnificent dishes and excellent wines drawn from across the empire, as well as a number of ethically and aesthetically dubious treats. Foie gras, for example, required the force-feeding of geese, while capons were the innovative result of castrating cockerels. Apicius, a well-known first-century Roman gourmand who committed suicide when his lavish budget for food ran dry, professed a taste for flamingo tongues, camel heels, and the teats and vulvas of sows.
This gastronomic diversity might lead one to think that the Romans were limitless in their affections for food. But actually, there was one practice in particular that the Romans considered so uncouth, so unimaginably foul, that it revealed a complete lack of civilization. This was, of course, the unforgivable sin of cooking with butter instead of olive oil, and it was one of the most important elements in the Roman definition of a “barbarian.”
Centuries earlier, the Romans themselves had been the barbarians, from the perspective of the Greeks. But now that much of the known world was ruled and shaped by Rome, they needed their own antithesis, a vastly inferior “other” that would help define what it meant to be Roman. The various Germanic and Eurasian tribes congregating at the fringes of the empire were easily cast as the barbarian hordes. After all, they did not speak Latin or worship the Roman gods or live according to Roman law—and just look at what they ate! Food has always been a useful mechanism for demonizing populations, and it was no different in the ancient world. You knew you were dealing with uncivilized barbarians if they cooked with butter, drank beer instead of wine, and relied on meat from the hunt rather than farmed crops.1
Over the years, the Gallo-Roman population had generally adapted to “civilized” Roman ways, while the Germanic tribes in the north and east of what is now France adhered to their own culinary traditions. Some argue that this explains why even today there exists a noticeable divide between the north of France, where people are more likely to cook with butter and drink beer or cider, and the south of France, where most dishes are prepared with olive oil and wine reigns supreme. It would be nice if it were this simple, but such culinary divisions actually do not map this neatly onto the Roman/German divide (and as we shall see, these sorts of social preferences are rarely attributable to a single historical factor).
The Roman sense of superiority did not always correlate with the actual strength of their empire (a common historical affliction) and in the fourth and fifth centuries it was often attacked by barbarian tribes. The Romans succeeded in co-opting individual tribes, giving them land or loot if they would settle frontier territories and defend them against other barbarians, but this proved to be successful only in the short term. In the end, Gaul was swarmed by the Vandals, the Alans, the Suebi, the Burgundians, the Visigoths, and, most important for French history, the Huns and the Franks.
Attila the Hun is probably one of the few barbarian leaders whose name is familiar to most of us, with its enduring connotations of cruelty and savagery. Called the “Scourge of God,” he built a mighty empire in eastern Europe, before eventually invading Gaul in 451. He sacked towns such as Metz, killing most of its inhabitants, and the terrified populace fled before him. Finally, he was defeated by the Roman army in June 451, near Paris, in the Battle of the Catalaunian Fields, one of the bloodiest clashes in European history and the first major setback for Attila in Europe. It was not, however, a decisive victory for the Romans; Attila returned the next year to invade Italy, though he failed to reach Rome itself. He died in 453 in true barbarian fashion, choking to death on his own blood on his wedding night.
Overall, the Huns are not remembered very fondly in France. But their invasion led to a French food legend, namely that the Huns were responsible for introducing choucroute, or sauerkraut, to the parts of eastern France that they swept through, like Alsace and its capital, Strasbourg. A classic dish in French brasseries and bistros, usually eaten with pork or sausages, sauerkraut is popular throughout Germany and eastern Europe thanks to invaders from the Asian steppes (although most likely it was the thirteenth-century Mongols, not the Huns, who were responsible for its introduction). The association of sauerkraut with Germany led to a more modern kind of food demonization in the twentieth century: in Anglo-Saxon countries, “kraut” became a derogatory term for Germans during the world wars, while the French preferred to call them “choucroute eaters.” During World War I, some patriotic American manufacturers of sauerkraut even renamed their product “liberty cabbage.” Luckily, in the decades since, sauerkraut has lost its political stigma. Today, it is merely another trendy health food that you are probably not eating enough of.
The Franks had a much more substantial impact—not least in the fact that France is derived from Francia, the land of the Franks. The Franks were a loose confederation of Germanic tribes living in what is now Germany, Belgium, and northern France, on the fringes of the Roman Empire. After Rome fell in 476 C.E., following a prolonged period of internal decay and barbarian invasion, a man named Clovis united the Frankish tribes and became their king. As the Roman Empire disintegrated in western Europe, he conquered more and more of the province of Gaul, defeating both Roman armies and other barbarian forces.2
Clovis established the Merovingian dynasty, named after his grandfather Merovech, who according to legend was descended from a sea god (the Franks at that time being pagans). But Clovis married a Christian woman, and when he found himself on the losing side against the Alemanni at the Battle of Tolbiac in 496, he prayed to the Christian God, promising to be baptized if he was granted victory. The Franks turned the tide of the battle and defeated the Alemanni, and so Clovis and the Franks became Christians. This was a shrewd political move, given that by now most people in Gaul were Christian, and bishops held a great deal of power. Clovis was baptized in Reims, starting a long-standing tradition in which French kings were baptized, and later crowned, in the city. But he decided to make Paris, one of his favorite towns, the capital of his kingdom. Thus, it was traditionally said that French history started with Clovis and the Merovingians.
Theodoric, the son and successor of Clovis, had a Greek doctor named Anthimus as an adviser. Anthimus subscribed to classical Greek notions about health and the human diet, which advocated eating certain foods to ward off or alleviate illness. He wrote a culinary guide called De observatione ciborum, which helped Greek and Roman food customs survive within the Frankish kingdoms into the medieval era. He advised a copious use of ginger, for example, as a digestive aid, and ginger indeed came to be a prominent feature of medieval cooking. His advice was not limited to which kinds of food to eat; he instructed how they should be prepared as well. Beef should be boiled, then roasted—with a gravy of pepper, cloves, and other spices—in an earthen vessel rather than a copper one. Meat should be roasted not too close to the fire, and frequently basted. Chickpeas should be eaten only very well cooked, with a bit of salt and oil.3 Anthimus also wrote a great deal on pork, which was very much loved by both the Romans and the Merovingians. The French have kept this love for pork and in fact have a saying that dans le cochon tout est bon (in the pig, everything is good).
But perhaps the lasting gastronomic contribution of the Merovingians had more to do with the way in which people ate. Men of the Roman nobility used to lie down or recline while dining; children, women, commoners, and slaves used to sit. But at a Merovingian banquet, everyone sat on long benches, and this came to be the custom in France. Indeed, the idea of not sitting properly at a table would be considered barbaric in France today.
In fact, the modern French have a lot of table manners that everyone is expected to know, which may be a bit nerve-racking for foreigners who desperately want to avoid being seen as barbarians. For example, do not smear foie gras onto toast (it should be eaten in slices). When eating salad, you should fold the lettuce into manageable bites rather than hacking it into pieces with your knife. And for god’s sake, do not slice off the tip of a triangle of brie! It must be cut lengthwise so that everyone has the pleasure of eating the delicious center. While you’re at it, don’t even think about pouring yourself an enormous glass of wine, like the Saxons (and today’s Anglo-Saxons) are wont to do. Apparently, there are still plenty of ways to be a barbarian in France.
The French proverb dans le cochon tout est bon (in the pig, everything is good) decorates the wall of Aux Trois Cochons–Le Père Fillion, a traditional bouchon in Lyon. Bouchons are typically family-run bistros devoted to local specialties, especially meat dishes, with reasonable prices and lively atmospheres. Unusual for France, most bouchon chefs have been women, including the famous Eugénie Brazier, known as La Mère Brazier, one of the most influential French chefs of the twentieth century. Photograph by authors, 2016.